Who Knows What Comes Next?
by KrackFox
Summary: Dr. Harleen Quinzel begins her new job at Arkham State Hospital. She came with a purpose, but can she pull it off?
1. Soothe The Pain

A first day on the job is always going to be nerve-wracking. But this time there was a tingling excitement that kept coming in bursts every half hour or so. She smiled warmly at everyone she was introduced to and waited patiently at every desk and door she was told to wait at. But her fingers couldn't stop moving. Up and down the pen she kept in her pocket, on the wrist of her white coat, over the beads on her bracelet, they fiddled and twisted and pressed. She was anxious to get into the core of the building, where the inmates were kept. She was so close to the sole reason she moved to Gotham in the first place. She had just finished touching up her lipstick when her name was called.

"Miss. Quinzel?" an older gentleman unlocked the large white door she sat across from.

"Yes! Hi – Hello, Mr. O'Hara." She corrected her relaxed greeting and got up to firmly shake hands with her employer.

"We're so pleased to have you here. It's nice to finally speak face to face. It's been hard to find anyone with credentials like yours who is willing to take on this position. As I'm sure you know, once people have got a name for themselves, they stop wanting to do the hard work."

"Oh I am very aware of that." Harleen replied, as they began to walk down the expansive white hallway into the epicentre of Arkham State Hospital's Psych Ward.

"I've been told that you've decided to live in the next neighbourhood over. If you change your mind for whatever reason, we can offer you full accommodation in our staff quarters. If you're intimidated by staying so close to our 'crazies', just know that even outside of here you won't be far from a few anyway." He chuckled, not noticing the disapproving look Harleen shot him.

"Once you've worked extensively in the profession, you don't fear patients. I'm living with a friend of mine who grew up in Gotham, so that is why I declined the offer."

O'Hara huffed quietly and stopped walking. He gestured down the corridor they had just turned into.  
"This will be your sector. Every inmate in this hallway is under your supervision. You can make your own timetable according to what you deem they need, just let me see a copy of it." He lowered his voice, "I'm going to be honest with you. None of these guys are getting out of here. I don't really care what you do, just give me a weekly report that looks good and you can do your own thing." He laughed and pat her shoulder, "They certainly don't pay us enough to try any harder. Am I right?"

Harleen perked up, hearing a distinctive laugh come through the muffled walls of a cell.

O'Hara rolled his eyes. "This fuckin' guy again. I'm sure you've heard of him."

Harleen ignored the comment and began searching for the door the laughter came from behind. Once she was sure she'd found it, she pulled aside the sliding panel to look through the inset window.

There he was. The now unrecognisable Joker, laughing and choking, his face scrunched up in pain. Harleen had studied his file. He suffered brain damage as a child and developed a condition which caused uncontrollable, painful laughter. She thought back to the night she first saw him on television. Murray Franklin had played a clip of him in a comedy club, unable to stifle his laughter. She had thought at the time that his public ridicule had been cruel, but she hadn't realised the extent of their heartlessness.

The fit ended, and his eyes rested on her. His face fell, expressionless.

"Hello Arthur," her voice came out much quieter than she intended.

Arthur smiled mockingly and put a hand to his ear. 'C_an't hear you_,' he mouthed.

She crouched down and slid across the second slat covering the food delivery hatch. There was no thick glass muffling the sound now.

"Hello Arthur," she repeated.

"Hi," was his quick reply.

"Do you need something to soothe the pain? I know your condition can cause you discomfort."

"Leave him," O'Hara interrupted. "The guards can deal with that on their round."

"Let me offer help to my patient, if you please, Sir," she smiled sweetly at him. "After all, that's what I'm here to do."

O'Hara shrugged and leant against the door of the room next to Arthur's.

"You're my new therapist?" the frail looking man dropped to his hands and knees on the floor and began crawling towards the opening in the door.

"Yes I am. My name is Dr. Quinzel. Harleen Quinzel. Feel free to call me by whichever name you prefer." She watched with barely disguised fascination. "Would you like a hot tea for your throat?"

"I've never had tea before," Arthur was right up against the door now, his face inches from hers, but thick metal keeping them from touching. "That's all very well-to-do, isn't it?"

"If it is, is that any reason you shouldn't have it?" she held his hard stare. "Do you like peppermint?"

"I love it."

"Peppermint tea it is. I saw some in the staff room, so I know we have it. I'll be right back." She leant back, so that her whole face was visible to him through their peephole.

"Are you really a therapist?"

"I am, yes." She smiled.

"None of the others have looked like that."

O'Hara cut in, "Alright clown. You'll get your tea, but don't overstep the mark." He grabbed the panel and firmly slid it shut, along with the window above.

Harleen stood, not quite sure what to say to her superior's harsh reaction.

"Let's get his tea, then," he said to her, taking off back down the corridor. "I can't say I agree with your approach, but maybe something different is what we need." He glanced back at her. "The red lipstick is only going to encourage the men, so you might want to think about that."

She caught up with his strides. "Trust my process, Doctor. I promise you will see results."

"With your track record I'd be stupid not to trust you. Just please don't end up in hospital like the last one."


	2. Her Smile Looks Better

Bright and early the next day, Harleen was in the building speaking to every patient under her care. She would conduct the routine assessment and then inquire into when and how often they would like to be seen. She felt slight guilt at how much she would let thoughts of Arthur Fleck cross her mind in her other sessions, but she was just nervous. That would fade after the first consultation.

She purposefully left him until last, so there were no other appointments to get to. They could take their time.

The two large guards escorted Arthur into the room for high risk patients, which was bare and cold. A sturdy table and two chairs were the only furniture, and Arthur was made to sit on the side of the table that had a metal ring screwed into it. A set of handcuffs was looped through and then secured to his wrists. Evidently they had learnt from his last attack and decided that even cuffed he could do damage, so locking him to something heavy was their next bright idea.

Harleen was wearing a lanyard around her neck, with an alert button dangling at the end which she tucked into her shirt. If she pressed it the guards would jump into action and get her out of there. She prayed she wouldn't need it. She told the men to wait just outside the door, because it was imperative that the patients felt alone with her.

Arthur watched her cross to her chair and arrange the papers. She was wearing the same lipstick as yesterday. He liked it a lot. He wanted to smear it into a smile across her face. But then she sat down, and her chair scraped against the floor in a way that sounded almost like flatulence. Pausing, she tensed her stomach and clenched her teeth to prevent a smirk appearing. Arthur rocked his chair, making it squeak out a fart in return. The laugh escaped her, and he joined in, liking how he had pushed her into letting herself go. He decided that her smile looked better than any he could paint on her.

She composed herself. "That's probably not the best way to start one of these."

"Personally, I've not had better," he lifted his fingers to his lips. They were trembling. "Could I have a cigarette?"

There was a box of them in Harleen's pocket, and she pulled one out along with a lighter. "Of course. I have some here for you."

He wasn't allowed to hold a lighter himself, so she lit the cigarette for him and offered it out. He leant his head forward, pursing his lips to indicate placement straight into his mouth. She obliged, leaning across the table slightly and letting her fingers graze his lips as he took hold of the filter. He took a deep drag, groaning slightly at the release it gave him. His arms felt heavy as he lifted his shackles to take it away from his mouth again.

"What does that do for you? How does it affect you?" Harleen watched the smoke curl out from between his lips.

"Makes me feel a bit quieter on the inside. Probably does more harm than good, but it occupies my hands when I'm feeling restless."

"How loud is it normally on the inside?"

"A dull hum all the time. It gets louder when I don't feel too good. But there's always a song playing, anytime I stop to listen."

"Is it any specific music, or do you make it up?"

"It's all stuff I've heard before. Bits and pieces I pick up, although sometimes I like to fill in the gaps myself."

"So you have music inside you. What else do you have in you that makes you who you are?"

"Sadness, pain, anger, lust. That's what sits inside me."

"Do you like having that inside you?"

"I used to hate it. But now I know it gave me what I needed to take action."

"Tell me what action you took that got you here."

"Haven't you read my file?"

"Yes, but I want to hear it from you."

And he told her, from the moment he felt like things started changing for him. When government cuts meant that he lost the only support he had. When he got fired, when he discovered his mother's lies. Everything. And she listened, occasionally asking him to expand on certain things. She let him go off on tangents and take his time. She even lit another cigarette for him without him having to ask. It felt so different. Like there was respect there. Like he could trust her, which made him not want to trust her. Why would she care? Why does she care? Because she did. He couldn't know it for sure, but she did. Little did he know how much she wanted to be in that room with him. All he could see was the sudden glisten of wetness in her eyes when he began to let his own tears flow.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. Wiping his eyes as though he was angry that he'd let himself get emotional.

"Let me get you some water," Harleen hastily stood. "We could both use some."

She rushed out of the room and waited until the door swung shut behind her before letting the tears come. This was highly unprofessional, letting a patients' story affect her personally. But then again, her being here wasn't for an entirely professional reason.

"What's happened?" one of the security personnel asked, reaching out a hand to steady her.

"He said some horrible things, as expected." She grabbed his arm, "Don't mention this to anyone, please. It's just… that time of the month. You know?"

The men nodded, looking slightly uncomfortable. It was an easy card to play. Harleen smiled sweetly and promptly filled two paper cups with water from the fountain close by. She allowed herself a few seconds to compose herself before walking back past the guards with a stony expression. They held the door open for her as she re-entered the room.

She placed both cups on the table. Arthur gratefully drank half the cup, face still wet from tears he couldn't be bothered to wipe away. He looked intently at her. She wished her eyes didn't give her away but she knew they did.

"What did I say?"

"You last spoke about how y-"

"No, what did I say to make you cry?"

"Damn," she sighed. "I apologize for how unprofessional that was." His gaze was so piercing it was hard to hold. "It wasn't what you said, Arthur. But rather, it was how you felt. It's clear how much pain you went through, and I was effected by your retelling of events."

Arthur leant across the table, "I killed people."

"I know," she nodded, knowing how careless she was being already. "I know."

"But you care about _my_ story?"

"I do. I am here to help you, not to get justice for any crimes."

Laughter burst out of him, and his hand leapt to his throat. The night before when she had witnessed him having one of these fits he looked pained, but right now it seemed as though he was reveling in it. She waited for it to subside. Once all that was left were soft chuckles, he started to speak.

"I like you. You can stay."

"I'm glad you've taken to this change. We'll end today's session there." She gathered her papers together swiftly. "When would you like your next session? We can leave it up to a week at most."

He leant back in his chair and smiled at her. "Tomorrow's good for me."


	3. Invested In Someone

"Holy shit, Iris," Harleen dumped her bag on the couch and threw her coat over the back of a chair. "I've already managed to fuck myself and I'm only two days in."

"Impressive," came the reply from the kitchen.

Iris Voyer and Harleen had moved in together just over a week ago. They had met at University at a party hosted by mutual friends. Although they had no classes together, their instant connection meant that they made time for each other every weekend. Soon they had gained best friend status. Iris had moved back to Gotham, where she grew up, soon after finishing at University. Whereas Harleen had gone wherever her work took her. But friends like that kept in touch. And as soon as Harleen suggested taking a job in Gotham City, Iris jumped on the opportunity to live with her.

"I've made a big pot of pasta, do you want some?" Iris poked her head into the living room.

"Yes please!" Harleen sighed and fell back onto the sofa. "How was work?"

"Same old, you know. But on the way home I picked us up a new friend. He's on the windowsill."

Harleen lifted her head to peer across the room. There sat a snake plant in a cute ceramic pot.

She laughed, "He's beautiful! But you're gonna go bankrupt if you keep getting more plants."

"As long as I have all my friends around me, then I don't need money. Thomas is going to guard the house and keep us safe." Iris brought two bowls full of pasta into the living room and set them on the coffee table.

Harleen gratefully picked up the warm bowl. "Thomas is a fantastic name. I'll remember that one."

"So tell me about how you messed up big time," Iris managed to say through a mouthful of pasta.

"I cried. In front of a patient. Just got caught up in empathy and made a fool of myself."

"And by 'a patient' you mean Joker, right?"

Harleen groaned. "Arthur Fleck, yeah. I don't know what he must think. And I'm just praying the boss doesn't hear about it."

"Don't beat yourself up too much. You've never done it before, yeah. But you've also never been as invested in someone before you worked with them."

"I'm invested in all my work, thank you very much." Harleen playfully acted offended.

"Well yeah, I know that. But maybe stop watching those tapes before work. Seeing something like that first thing in the morning, it can't set you up well."

She was talking about Harleen's father's tapes that she had brought with her when she moved. Her dad was getting older and wasn't always able to stay up to watch his favourite shows. One of those favourites used to be _Live With Murray Franklin_. So, his wife would tape them for him on the nights that he fell asleep. Thankfully he had never seen Murray's last show. But Harleen had. She was visiting her parents that night, and although she had never been very interested in the show before, tonight they were bringing on that poor man from the comedy club. She had watched that tape with her father the week before. Her heart had gone out to him, and now they were bringing him back. She was hoping he'd receive some sort of apology, or perhaps he would redeem himself, but she felt as though she was about to witness something deeply uncomfortable. What happened that night was something she'd never have expected. As soon as the program cut out, she had grabbed the tape out of the box, and also dug out the previous recording that Arthur featured on. She explained to her mother what had happened as gently as she could, and said she'd taken the tapes to wipe them. But instead she'd watched them over and over.

"You're right. I thought it might help me figure things out, but perhaps I should leave it for now." Harleen knew damn well she'd be watching them again by the end of the week, but she'd not let Iris know that.

"What's he like, though? Oh, I guess you can't tell me that."

"Yeah, that's something I'll keep professional about at least."

"Inspirational though, what he's symbolised for people. I have a few friends who joined in with the riots." Iris took a big mouthful of pasta but spoke through it. "Would have gone myself if I wasn't so afraid of losing my job."

Harleen took a big spoonful herself and replied, "He brought me here to you, babycakes."


	4. Dark Humor

"God, that was a long night. Didn't it drag on?"

Harleen was barely through the door before Arthur started speaking.

"You're right. I had a hard time sleeping, myself." Harleen settled into her seat.

"I was tossing and turning. Probably just the anticipation getting to me." Arthur smiled at the cigarette she produced from her coat pocket. "Speaking to you makes me feel human again."

She placed the cigarette between his lips as they'd done before.

"As opposed to?"

"An animal. A clown. A monster. All fun things to be, but not to live as."

"Why has the image of a clown become synonymous with you, do you think?"

"Because when I killed those guys I was dressed as one. That's all the papers had to go off of. I just happened to be coming home in my work gear! It works though, doesn't it? My get up on the television? Best I've looked in a long time."

"And does the image of a clown mean something to you?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to make people laugh. Really enjoyed it. But no one wanted to laugh with me, just at me. If they can't understand what's really funny, then I'll just have to show them."

"How would you like to show them?"

"By painting the town red." He winked at her. "What do you do for fun?"

"Well, I suppose I like to go out dancing. Play card games with my friends. Smoke and drink."

Arthur raised his cigarette in response, implying she should join him.

"Oh no, not tobacco." She laughed, "I splutter like a teenager giving it a first try. I smoke marijuana."

"Careful, you'll end up arrested like me. I won't tell. Unless there's a chance of us being cell neighbors." He felt a tingle at the smile he evoked from her.

"And what did you do for fun?" She directed the conversation back to him, wanting to actually do a good job today.

"Nothing. Watched TV mostly. But that was just a distraction."

"And in here. There's nothing for you, is there? They currently don't allow you in the recreation room."

"No, not for a while."

"If you keep doing this well for the next week, I can get you back in there. It'll have to be on a different schedule from the other patients, but it could be a start."

"And that's in exchange for not killing you?"

Harleen hit him with a stare that he hadn't expected. As though she was daring him to do it. If she could actually help him live out the remainder of his days with less mind-numbing boredom, he should probably stay on her good side.

"I'm sorry. It was meant as a joke, but I guess it's not appropriate."

"You understand I have to be on alert. But…" And there came a pull at the corner of her mouth, "I can still appreciate some dark humor."

Arthur took a deep drag from his cigarette.

Harleen continued, "I also can and will kick your fucking ass."

And Arthur coughed the smoke back up through a bout of laughter.

A week passed, and then two. Harleen got Arthur access to the recreation room. On his own and not for as long, but it was a start. Harleen had never encountered a patient who was so interested in hearing her speak about herself. Their sessions would end like two friends chatting in a bar. Arthur was just pleased to have someone who actually saw him. Treated him like he was worth something. Laughed at his jokes. He couldn't remember ever having a conversation with a woman this beautiful. He supposed he had confidence now because he knew she wasn't going to reject him and leave. She made it feel easy for him to open up. He just wished he could get out of those chains and touch her. Every day when she placed the cigarette in his mouth, and her fingertips touched his lips, he wanted to stick out his tongue and taste her. But he'd decided against it for now.

Harleen came into work that day with a mission. A notebook that belonged to Arthur had been taken in as evidence when he was arrested. The items that were first taken off him were in a box somewhere in a storage room. She'd had him sign a document the day before saying she could take the box. He wanted the book back to fill the rest of the pages, but she was going to read it all first. She couldn't wait. He'd given her permission to do it, but he couldn't have imagined her practically running back to her office to pour over it.

She threw her bag under her desk, and eagerly opened the lid of the box. The musty scent that emanated from within smelled unsurprisingly like cigarettes. On top was the battered notebook. Her heart was pounding, and not just from the speed with which she had come down the hallway previously. She opened it at the first page and began to read.

His handwriting and spelling were at times fairly juvenile, but they'd already spoken about his education. He struggled intensely at school and was treated as a nuisance rather than a child that needed extra help. The subject matter ranged from jokes about standing in line at the grocery store to plans on ending his own life. Every page was like seeing into a day in his life. Then began the images. Scribbled drawings of monsters, pictures cut from magazines. She turned a page and was met with the image of a naked woman. A collage of pictures from a hardcore porno magazine was stuck to the page, along with little details added in pen. Every few pages from there on contained a suggestive image. Sometimes they were combined with something humorous, like a girl performing fellatio was doodled over to turn her into a pop-star singing on stage. And then there were the more sinister creations, showing the women bleeding out on the ground. She wasn't entirely sure of how this made her feel. There was clearly something here that had to be discussed. The images gave her an uneasy feeling, that was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that even still, thinking of sex and Arthur at the same time gave her a fluttering feeling deep and low inside her.

When she finally finished reading what the book contained, she placed it on top of the documents she would take into Arthur's session. She spun her chair to face the few small screens that were lined up across the wall. Only three were on. Arthur's and two other patients that were at high risk of self harm. She only had on the patient's cameras who particularly needed monitoring. She watched Arthur lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. It was probably unhealthy to not be addressing however she felt about him. Iris had jokingly called her 'obsessed' the night before, when Harleen had gushed about getting her hands on his possessions. She was probably spot on. Harleen was rubbish at diagnosing herself, but perhaps she was obsessed. She tried not to think about how often thoughts of reaching out and touching him came to mind. Her stomach lurched when she realized Arthur was looking right into the camera now. As though he could see into her. He smiled and she had to stop looking. She turned back to the box and went to put the lid back on.

But first… she saw his red suit folded up in there. The one he wore to become Joker. She carefully lifted out his green shirt. Part of the collar was stained with blood. Either from him or from Murray. She should have been disgusted. She shouldn't want to touch it at all. But she lifted it to her face and smelt it. Under the strong stench of smoke was a touch of cologne that he would have sprayed on his neck before he left the house that day. The thought of biting his neck jumped into her head.

Her eyes snapped open and she dropped the shirt back into the box. Stepping back, she patted herself on the face to both scold herself and snap her back to reality.

_What the fuck are you doing? Why are you here? _She had to face the facts. She came here because she believed in him. She believed in Joker, and she wanted the world to change. But there was something a lot more visceral to it than that.


End file.
